


Somnambulism

by Tysolna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Antidiogenes, Epic Friendship, Fluff, Friendship, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Sleepwalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:06:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tysolna/pseuds/Tysolna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There stood Sherlock, in a ratty old t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, one arm stretched and cuffed to his bed's headboard, shuffling forwards and back, trying to drag the bed with him, his eyes open but unseeing, gaze darting around the room, while softly moaning John's name." </p><p>Sherlock has always been prone to sleepwalking; John has always had vivid dreams and nightmares. Together, they find a solution to both their problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somnambulism

There is a reason why Sherlock will exhaust himself both mentally and physically before he succumbs to the need for sleep. Even then he more often than not simply crashes on the sofa, wanting to be as uncomfortable as he possibly can so as not to fall into too deep a sleep. It is more than not wanting to lose any time to the demands of his body when there is a case. Sherlock fears the loss of control over his body.

There is a reason why there are handcuffs under Sherlock’s bed. They used to be the bondage sort he bought at adult toy stores, but these days they are the real kind, nicked off Lestrade, cold, unforgiving metal. Sherlock has handcuffs under his bed and he uses them at night, but not for any lurid purpose.

It had started when Sherlock was seven: Somnambulism. He would be found in the kitchen, or the library, and once in the garden, standing in the rain with his eyes open, his face turned to the night sky. When his mother found him and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders to keep him warm, he woke up. That's when they realised what was happening. The tendency to sleepwalking was prevalent in his family after all, but it was generally harmless, and he was expected to grow out of it as he grew older.

He didn't.

 

Sherlock had a mind so active that it wouldn't stop working even in his sleep, and where his mind went, his body followed. The episodes of sleepwalking had grown less after he moved to University. By the time he was living in London and drowning himself in drugs, they were all but gone, and he was sure he was well rid of these episodes.

Then things changed. He got clean, he started working with the police, John moved in. There were cases, there was excitement and adrenaline, and Sherlock noticed that while on a case, his body once again moved without his volition while he was dreaming of chasing criminals. He controlled it in his own special way, by not sleeping during a case, and with the bondage cuffs. It worked satisfactorily.

The sleepwalking had gotten worse after the pool. It was as if his subconscious was trying to punish him for what had happened, for how close he and John had come to death. The bondage cuffs stopped working when Sherlock's nimble fingers managed to open them even as he slept. Locking his bedroom door was no help. A body that can get out of cuffs had no problem with a locked door. He would go to sleep, utterly exhausted, and wake up somewhere in the flat, doing things he knew not why. It was a stroke of luck for Sherlock that even asleep, he was so silent that John hadn't woken up and noticed. But this was unacceptable.

He started using the police handcuffs the day after he awoke to the smell of hot metal and pain in his hand and found himself in the kitchen, clutching the handle of an empty pot hot on the stove. He turned off the stove, let the pot cool and bandaged his hand. In the morning, he explained away the burn on his palm with an experiment gone wrong. John sighed, shook his head and went to Boots to get burn cream.

 

Sherlock was now using the handcuffs every night, taking them out from under the bed, putting one loop onto the bed's headboard, the other snapping close around his wrist. It made for uncomfortable sleeping, but he forced himself to get used to it. A few times he woke up standing, trying to tug free of the cuffs, or sitting on the floor with his arm stretched over his head and tingling from blood loss. He knew perfectly well that he was only managing the symptoms, but unless and until he knew the cause or a cure for his sleepwalking, it was the best he could do to control his body. His clever, stupid, stubborn body.

 

oOo

 

For five nights in a row, John had the same dream.

They were at an indeterminate crime scene, when suddenly Sherlock would take off in hot pursuit, shouting for John. They would be running through damp London alleys or dark, abandoned buildings and once, memorably, a castle ruin, doing their best to catch whoever it was they were running after. In his dream state, John did not question this, automatically pulling the Sig from his waistband as he ran, trying to keep up with Sherlock.

As they got closer to their quarry, John could see that what they had been chasing was the ghostly figure of a man. It floated in front of them, moaning and rattling its chains, always out of reach, and Sherlock kept calling ever more urgently for John.

One particular night John dreamt that he was running through a warehouse filled with rows and rows of boxes. Sherlock had disappeared around a corner, and John was trying to both find Sherlock and keep track of the movement of the ghost they were hunting. He ran on through the labyrinthine warehouse, his legs moving as if through treacle. Finally he saw Sherlock standing in an open space, back towards John and head hanging down, looking at his feet. “Sherlock”, John muttered and tried to take his arm, but his hand went through the fabric and flesh. The insubstantial Sherlock turned around, and John was shocked to see that he was translucent, eyes wide and white, and there were chains around his hands and feet, rattling in time to his moans.

 

John woke up panting. His heart was racing, his legs tangled in sweaty sheets. He sat up, trying to dispel the dream vision, when he heard a metallic rattling from Sherlock's bedroom downstairs, followed by a moan, shuffling steps, and a sound as if something heavy were tugged on the floor.

Still in the adrenaline-filled throes of his nightmare, John was instantly on the alert. He was convinced that Sherlock was in danger, maybe someone had broken in, overpowered Sherlock and was now trying to abduct him. John quickly crept downstairs and, detouring slightly to grab a sharp knife from the kitchen, made his way as silently as possible to Sherlock's bedroom.

The sight that greeted him could not have been more unexpected.

There stood Sherlock, in a ratty old t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, one arm stretched and cuffed to his bed's headboard, shuffling forwards and back, trying to drag the bed with him, his eyes open but unseeing, gaze darting around the room, while softly moaning John's name.

 

John lowered the knife and carefully put it onto a shelf by the door. So this was what he had heard for the last nights, this was where his dreams of chasing ghosts had come from. It had been Sherlock all along.

The last time he had seen someone sleepwalking was in Afghanistan, but he recognised the signs. He quickly went through a mental check list – Sherlock was not under any undue stress, and had not consumed any alcohol or drugs as far as he knew. Why Sherlock was sleepwalking was a mystery, but one that would have to wait for later. John had to calm him down and and get him back into bed – and take off those ridiculous handcuffs which were chafing and bloodying his wrist.

He walked slowly towards Sherlock, hands outstretched, speaking in a steady voice. “Sherlock? Sherlock, it's alright, I'm here. You're safe.” He wrapped his hand gently around the wrist that was not shackled to the bed, automatically reading a pulse. To his surprise, Sherlock sighed deeply at the contact and closed his eyes, relaxing immediately and so completely that it was all John could do to catch him before he fell forward. Instead he managed to drag him towards the bed and into a sitting position. Then he started looking around for the keys to the handcuffs, but as soon as his hands left Sherlock, he became agitated again.

“Right”, John sighed, “I see.” His hand went back around Sherlock's wrist, the other to his shoulder, and he tried to lay Sherlock down as comfortably as he could. He tried once again to locate the keys, but Sherlock's moan of “John...” made him return to the bed.

“You awake, Sherlock?” he asked softly, but received no reply. Still asleep then, and possibly dreaming. But why had he handcuffed himself to the bed? John would never understand this man. What he did understand however was that as long as he was touching Sherlock, he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

It was also half past bloody two in the morning.

And Sherlock's bed was big enough for two.

John debated the problem briefly, but Sherlock never seemed to have a problem with personal boundaries where John was concerned, and besides it was medically inadvisable to leave a possibly somnambulant person on their own, especially when physical contact was so helpful. Never not touching Sherlock, John moved awkwardly into the bed, propped a pillow up against the headboard and sat leaning against it. He had fully intended to stay awake, keeping a watchful eye on Sherlock, but he fell asleep despite himself.

 

He was awoken a few hours later by the early morning traffic which was somewhat louder in the downstairs bedroom, with a crick in his neck from his head nodding forward when he slept sitting up and his arms full of gently snoring Consulting Detective.

John tried to stay very still while he was considering the circumstance he found himself in, but his neck hurt too much and he needed the loo. He slowly rotated his head, listening to the crackle of muscles and vertebrae, then carefully tried to disentangle himself from Sherlock. As soon as he moved Sherlock's eyes snapped open, looking at John with sleep-dazed incomprehension. John was able to pinpoint the exact moment when Sherlock realised what had happened. Sherlock closed his eyes and his expression shuttered as he rolled off John and curled in on himself on the side of the bed, drawing the covers over his head. The handcuffs jingled as he moved. John suppressed a sigh and got out of bed. Looking down at Sherlock he said, voice even as if this was a morning like any other: "I'm going to the loo, Sherlock, and then I'll be in the kitchen making tea and breakfast. You'll have some tea, right? And then I want to have a look at your wrist, it should get cleaned and disinfected." Sherlock remained motionless and silent under the duvet. John left the room to give both Sherlock and himself some time. Besides, he _really_ needed the loo.

 

oOo

 

The kettle was boiling and John was getting out the mugs when he heard Sherlock shuffle into the kitchen. Turning around, he saw that Sherlock was still wearing his pyjamas and dressing-gown, a kitchen knife in his hand and a quizzical expression on his face.

John waved in the direction of the knife. "I had a nightmare, woke up hearing noises from your bedroom, thought someone was attacking you." He shrugged. "Adrenaline reaction." Sherlock nodded and went to put the knife back into the drawer while John finished making the tea and put both mugs on the kitchen table. Sherlock sat down and wrapped his hands around his mug. He still hadn't said anything and was now avoiding John's eyes. John brought over the medical alcohol and bandages he had retrieved on his trip to the bathroom and sat down across from Sherlock. "Let me see that wrist of yours, then", he said and held out his hand, but Sherlock did not move.

John sighed. "Sherlock, look at me." Sherlock finally raised his eyes. His expression was carefully neutral. "I'm a doctor, Sherlock, and I was an Army doctor. That was the first thing you deduced about me, remember? I was in a war zone. Do you seriously believe I have never seen someone sleepwalk before? Now give me your hand so I can tend your wound."

Sherlock gave this some consideration and nodded. He let go of the mug and put his tea-warmed hand into John's.

"Thank you. This may sting a little", he said as he started wiping the blood off Sherlock's wrist with an alcohol swab and then wrapped the wrist in a light bandage. While he was working, Sherlock started to speak in a soft voice.

"It runs in the family", he said, "the sleepwalking. I never grew out of it. I wake up sometimes..."

He trailed off and John looked at him. "That burn wasn't a failed experiment, was it."

Sherlock almost smiled. "No, it wasn't. I was apparently trying to cook. Who knows what else I have been doing, or will do, without being aware or being able to control it. I have to cuff myself to the bed to make sure that if I have an... episode... I won't try to fill a bath and let it overflow, or run into traffic, or any of the things that could happen. You see?"

John nodded and finished the bandage. "There. Should be alright, but if you're planning on doing an experiment today I'd recommend wearing a latex glove." He sat back, looked at Sherlock and cleared his throat.

 "I don't know if you remember what you dreamt last night", he said, "but you were calling my name, and you seemed to calm down considerably when there was... physical contact." There, John thought, that was better than _when I was touching you_ , let's stay in a medical context for now. "In fact, you were sleeping without further problem afterwards, and you look more rested this morning than you have in weeks. I take it that none of the usual treatments for somnambulism worked?"

Sherlock snorted. "What, antidepressants and Benzo? Both can have cognitive impairment as side effects and I will not put them in my system. Besides, I'm an addict, John. Do you really want me to take psychoactive drugs?"

John had to concede that. "There are other treatments. Regular sleep patterns for one. God knows neither of us can claim to have those, what with the cases, my nightmares, and your somnambulism. But there has to be something else we can do than handcuffing you to the bed."

Sherlock leaned back and took a sip of tea. He frowned. "I was managing just fine. A locked door usually suffices, and when that doesn't, I use bondage handcuffs."

"Those weren't bondage handcuffs you were wearing, Sherlock, those were police-issue metal handcuffs."

"I said I was managing", Sherlock snarled, "but then you had to get yourself kidnapped and almost blown to bits by Moriarty because I was..." He interrupted himself, pushed back the chair and got up to leave, and suddenly John understood. "Sherlock. Sherlock, wait."

 

Sherlock stopped on the threshold to the living room, straightened back to John, unmoving. John got up and carefully stepped behind Sherlock, staying just out of reach. "I've always had vivid dreams", he said softly. "I know you know I have nightmares. Used to be they were about Afghanistan, and sometimes they still are. But they have changed. These days, when I have a nightmare, more often than not you're in them."

Sherlock scoffed. "So now your nightmares are about me, charming."

John frowned. "Shut up, Sherlock, that's not what I meant and you know it." He took a deep breath and continued. "I dream you're hurt, lost on a battlefield, and I can't reach you. I dream of someone I operated on at Bart's and it turns out it was you. I dream of you wearing that bloody vest at the pool, or Moriarty shooting your brains out before setting off the bomb and blowing us all sky-high. There are nights when I try not to go to sleep until I keel over from exhaustion because I don't know what weird scenario my brain will come up with next." He shivered as he remembered his dreams, and the panicked and sweat-drenched awakenings that followed. Sherlock still did not move, but his breathing had picked up, and John could tell he was listening. "My point is", John continued, dragging himself back into the present, "last night, in your bed. You were not the only one who slept well." He fell silent, waiting for Sherlock to put two and two together. At length, Sherlock said, "I have never slept in the same bed with someone else. I don't know if I can."

John chuckled. "You seemed to have to trouble last night."

Sherlock finally turned around and stared at John. "Yes, but I didn't exactly fall asleep with you in my bed. I'm not used to it."

"Well, I have a sister, I lived in a shared student flat, and I was in the Army, and let me tell you, you get used to bunking with someone pretty quickly."

Sherlock continued to stare. "There will be no intercourse", he said.

John rolled his eyes. "Jesus Sherlock, why does two people sleeping in the same bed have to be about sex? I can't promise you I won't have morning wood, but that's a purely physiological reaction. This is about psychological health, for both of us. If you feel uncomfortable, or start to sleepwalk again, or if I have nightmares and disturb you, we'll call the experiment a failure and do something else. Alright? Let's at least try."

Sherlock's unreadable stare lingered on John's face, but finally he nodded. "We will try." With that, he turned and walked away into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

 

oOo

 

That evening, John felt slightly awkward as he stood in front of Sherlock's bedroom door in his pyjamas. He was about to knock when Sherlock opened the door, equally in sleepwear. If John felt awkward, Sherlock looked positively scared, though he tried to put on a haughty mask. "Are you going to come in then, John?" he asked, stepping aside.

As he went into the bedroom, John saw that Sherlock had remade the bed with clean linen and had added one more cushion. He chuckled. "I don't propose to sleep sitting up again, you know."

Sherlock relaxed into a little smile. "I still want to lock the door, if you don't mind."

"Of course", John said, "though I would prefer if you didn't use the handcuff. I think I would notice if you tried to get out."

"I would prefer that too. Having one hand tied to the bedpost makes for uncomfortable sleeping."

"Heh, I can believe that. Do you want me to take the side nearer the door, just to make sure?"

"Good idea, yes."

 John laid down on one side of the bed while Sherlock locked the door, turned out the light and slipped under the duvet. They lay on their backs next to each other in the dark, neither of them certain what to do next. Both broke the silence at the same time.

"Sherlock..."

"John..."

"Um, go ahead."

"You said this morning", Sherlock began after a minute, "that I stopped sleepwalking when there was... physical contact."

John turned on his left side and looked to the space where Sherlock was. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, and he could see Sherlock's face and hair above the duvet. "Yes, you did. I touched your wrist to get a pulse and you pretty much collapsed into normal sleep, but became agitated again when there was no contact."

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, then said, "I have been researching sleeping positions today. How two people might share the same bed."

John chuckled lightly. "Anything in particular that caught your eye?"

"Yes, but you might not like it."

"At this point, Sherlock, if it gets both of us a good night's sleep, I am willing to try any position you care to put us in."

In response, Sherlock turned on his left side as well and shuffled closer to John while still keeping a fold of the duvet between them. He reached out backwards, and John smiled and put his hand into Sherlock's. Sherlock drew John's arm across his shoulders, and they settled into a comfortable almost-spoon position. John felt as if he was protecting Sherlock, Sherlock was reassured by John's presence, and they both drifted off to sleep.

 

oOo

 

There was no sleepwalking that night, and neither were there nightmares. The experiment was deemed an early success, although Sherlock insisted on more empirical proof.

 

Two weeks later he gave the handcuffs back to Lestrade. He wouldn't need them any more.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to be in fluffy Epic BFF-mode at the moment; I hope you don't mind. Updates of WIPs will follow, as well as probably more Epic BFF-material. And who knows, maybe even some PWP. ;-)
> 
> Thanks go to the good folk of Antidiogenes, without whom this would not have been finished.


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